


The Wounded Bird

by apocketfulofwry, Ophelia_Raine



Series: Mimosa [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A re-write of GoT707 and then some, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Drama & Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Modern Retelling, Non-Graphic Violence, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-02-17 02:44:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13067454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocketfulofwry/pseuds/apocketfulofwry, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_Raine/pseuds/Ophelia_Raine
Summary: Five years after Daenerys’ Dragons scorched the earth, Westeros has turned into a barren wasteland on which little grows. Now Sansa Stark, Warden of the North, must go to the Vale and speak with the Lord of the Eyrie in the hopes of renegotiating a trade deal.Except the Lord of the Eyrie was the man she once loved and then summarily executed.He’s still pissed about that.





	1. Committed

**Author's Note:**

> Both of us have been tossing up ideas on a series of collaborative works dealing with memory. This fic was kicked around for a little while until it finally became a reality. 
> 
> (That's the officious-sounding version anyway. The real version is that when apocketfulofwry gets hopped up on migraine meds and starts to what-if with Ophelia_Raine, Crazy Ideas Take Hold.)
> 
> We'll try and update as frequently as possible, although both of us have quite a few things on our plate because Life. But don't worry — there's a plot and plan, and we fully intend to see this story to its end. xx

The water beat down on his skin, turning it slightly red. He had turned the heat up, as he always did, to as high as he dared — right on that knife’s edge between pleasure and pain. Petyr closed his eyes as the shower drenched his head, as the water cascaded down his back, his buttocks, as it washed away the grime and the filth of the day. He hardly broke a sweat this week. It was perpetually wintry up here after all. But the company he kept in this palace, this hotbed of intrigue and backstabbing lords and ladies, political whores all of them…  

It was good to stand in the shower and wash the day’s muck off him. Clear his head. 

_An alliance makes sense… together they’d be difficult to defeat. He was named King in the North. He can be unnamed._

Her face floated back into view, her countenance stricken and then contemplative. _Softly, softly…_ that was always his way with her. A murmur here, a quiet suggestion there… _Let her come to him._ That was always his way with her. She could be as skittish as an unbroken mare, a bird on the cusp of flight, so he was never anything except gentle and kind. And he would watch as she’d soften, and then come to him.  

The yielding was always so precious, so satisfying. Let her see him as a man who never did willingly, knowingly hurt her. Let her learn of his remorse. Let her grow to trust him again.    

_Jon is young and unmarried. Daenerys is young and unmarried..._

The look on her face when he said it. And the things that were left unsaid. Y _OU are young and unmarried. I… am not._

Sansa had looked at him and she had known. She had known for a long time now, what he wanted and she couldn’t, wouldn’t give.  

He soaped himself. He took a scrub and polished his skin, the brush punishing. A brief self-flagellation.  

He was towelling off when he heard the knock on the door. 

“Just a minute,” he called sharply. He rubbed the towel over his head furiously, soaking most of the moisture off. Found his bathrobe and wrapped it around him, tying the knot low and towards his side. 

He peered through the peephole and he froze for a half-second before he unlatched the chain and swung open the heavy, fireproof door. 

“Your Grace,” he bowed slightly, then cocked his head to the side. “Is everything alright?” The rest of the palace stubbornly called her _M’lady_ during this tenure while Jon was away bending his knee and lengthening his cock to the dragon girl. But he would be the only one to insist on resting the mantle of queenship on Sansa's delicate, strong shoulders.  

“I am not a queen,” she replied stiffly as always, but she entered the room nonetheless. He closed the door quietly, and turned to face her. 

She looked at his form fully then, and they were both suddenly aware of his relative state of undress, his hair fully tousled, body still bare underneath the thick terrycloth. She looked away and then out of his window. 

“I’m sorry you’ve found me in such a natural state, your Grace. You caught me just as I was finishing my shower." He noted with curiosity her own robe, the silk burgundy, heavy, and patterned with swirling brocade, her own belt cinched tight around her little waist. It was a beautiful garment, and he wondered if it was a long wrap dress or her actual nightclothes. 

If it was the latter, it would be a first. He imagined silk or satin underneath. He couldn’t help it when his cock twitched and then hardened slightly.  

He moved to her slowly and took his place beside her, watching her as she stared out his window. 

“I’ve never been up here before. Your view is much better than mine, Lord Baelish,” she observed. 

He was gazing at her profile, at the way her lips moved and then rested. “Yes, it is.” 

_Why are you here, Sansa…_ But before the question could ever be asked, she turned to him and pressed soft lips to his.  

It was over before he could register his shock. She stepped back as suddenly as she came to him, her lips slightly parted. Uncertain. He stared at her, struggling to understand. Her eyes were still cool and azure, but she pressed her lips once more to his and this time, he caught them with his own. He hesitated for a fraction of eternity before he deepened the kiss. And this time his heart started to hammer.  

A hand to her face as he tilted his own. Then fingers in her hair holding her to him. Tenderly, as if she were crystal. Almost desperate, as if she were a flight risk. He felt her lips part ever so slightly, an invitation for more. When he felt the tip of her sweet tongue graze his own, he swore his heart could almost burst. 

_I have wanted. I have watched, and waited, and wanted._

* * *

_Are you sure you want to do this?_

* * *

“Your Grace—“

“Lord Baelish, stop calling me that. I am not a queen. I’m not even really the Lady of Winterfell.” 

“You are, and you always will be to me.” 

“Not tonight.” 

His eyes widened again. Another clash and clamour of thought and feeling. He was at once suspicious and hopeful and terrified and overjoyed. 

“Not tonight, m’lady?” 

“Tonight, I am Sansa. Tonight,” she paused, lowering her eyes, “you are Petyr.” 

He stared at her, hardly believing his ears. And then it was he who was pressing his lips to hers, his mouth parting almost immediately. He felt her open herself to him and he tasted her, their tongues shy and hesitant until they both figured out a dance of their own. And then he was holding her face in his hands again, possessive and hungry and thrilled. 

He felt her match his fervour. Her mouth worked against his own. Her hand came up and brushed across his neckline, skimming the terrycloth bathrobe before resting lightly on his chest. Even through the thick towelling, her hand felt branded on his skin. 

He had watched, and waited, and wanted. 

His mouth left hers then, and he whispered kisses up her jawline to just below her ear. She closed her eyes and stretched her neck skyward like a swan, that his lips should touch more of her. He kissed her ear, her temple, the distance between her hairline and the corner of her eye. Her brow, her nose, and then his mouth caught her lips again. 

_I am Petyr. I am your Petyr._

* * *

_Alright then. Get on with it._

* * *

Slowly they moved, their hands grazing south in a wordless question and answer. _Are you sure? Yes, I'm sure. Very sure? Yes, I'm sure._ He felt his robe pulled over his shoulder, then her lips as they skimmed across his clavicle. Her breath on his throat, then the tiniest lick in that dip between his neck and his collarbone. He shivered. He couldn't help it. 

Slowly, in turn, his hands travelled down the length of her, his fingers skimming the knot that held her robe together. It was silk, and all it would need was a tug. His fingers stayed on the bow and when she did not move his hand, he pulled the tail and felt her robe drop apart, heavy like curtains. He was right, he realised with a hitch of breath. She was wearing satin underneath. He slipped his arm around her waist then, and when she did not fight him, he pulled her close so her body was flush with his, her breasts pressed against his rapidly beating heart. He marvelled that she was still here. 

And then his hands were on her shoulders, slipping off her robe. _Down, down._ It crumpled thickly on the carpet. He stared in fascination at the thin white straps, how they held up the rest of that delicate slip of nothing. The dark rose of her nipples grazed the white of the satin, taut from the cold of the room or perhaps from the heat of him. So little between them now, for the very first time. He slipped the strap off, then the other. His lips, his tongue chased the fabric as it slid down her body. His mouth found a rose and he heard her gasp as he slipped his tongue over the bud.  

That heat from her body.  

His mouth closed over her breast and it wrung a small cry when he sucked fully. He pictured her eyes closing, taking it all in. The sensation of him suckling her like a babe, a man. His hands settled on her waist, firm. And then he travelled down. Kissing. Small licks. She did not move away. She did not fend him off. Instead she stood there, rooted.  

_I am yours. Let me show you._

Her sex was covered in satin as well, white and innocent and hopelessly revealing as the slip had been. The thick lace that bordered the trim lay flat against her pelvis. He smelled her want. His nose nuzzled the shadow between her thigh and her most holy of holies. But when he saw the scars, he stopped as if he were shot.  

"Sansa!"  

Her eyes flew open, as if snapped from a dream. She clenched her thighs shut, suddenly ashamed.  

"Sansa..." He heard his own voice crack. The criss-cross of blade, then another a whimsical flourish as if to carve his own name. As if branding a heifer. There were teeth marks also, he was sure of it. As if that foul creature had been nothing but a rabid dog and she, his bone. Petyr clenched his fist and then released it, futility writ everywhere. Across his countenance, his mien, his heart...  _I'm sorry, so sorry. Forgive me. I didn't know. I didn't want to know. Forgive me. I'd kill him, except he is dead._

A mask had slid over her face again. Her eyes had cooled back to azure. He prostrated himself and started to kiss her feet.  

* * *

_How do you answer these charges, Lord Baelish?_

_Guilty. Guilty. Guilty._

* * *

Slowly, by a small miracle, he felt her pull him gently back up to standing. Her eyes were impenetrable, but she pulled the knot at his waist so his robe gaped suddenly. His desire had been buried by remorse, but perhaps there was life in him yet. 

She pushed his robe off his shoulders and stared at his form, taking all of him in. The long scar dividing his body had long cut his heart from the rest of his machinations. Over the decades, the silvery path had faded as much as it ever would until he could almost dress himself now without remembering. But her marks were still fresh, skin knitted together on the surface, superficially healed. The real recovery would take years yet.  

She trailed her finger down the length of that journey, from collarbone to navel. Blood started to pool down low, following her travels. Her hand brushed across his mat of hair and he kept perfectly still, waiting. His heart beating, beating, beating again.   

But then she withdrew her hand and she was slipping the satin off. He watched as she carefully stepped out of it, _one, two,_ and then all of her was revealed to him. The downy patch of auburn. His mouth went dry. But she barely glanced his way before she moved towards his bed. And before his eyes, she knelt and bent herself over. 

_No…_

He went to her, his heart a jumble of emotions. His mind seethed with the knowledge of what Ramsay had reduced her to. _This exquisite, regal creature, fucked cold like a common fifty-dollar hooker. I’d kill him, except she already did._ “No, Sansa…” He came to her and gently pulled her back so she now sat on her heels in front of him, her back leaning sweetly on his chest. Together, they caught their reflection in the sliding mirror doors — his chin over her shoulder, her thighs parted. They stared at each other as his arm reached forward slowly, as his hand found her folds and parted them. 

She did not blink and neither did he. He spread her liquid want over her folds, wetting her nub, her lips. He caressed the seam, each lazy stroke upward and down slowly dipping a little deeper. He grazed the nub and watched as her eyes widened fractionally. _You feel it. I feel you._ He never blinked until his finger disappeared into her and her eyes slid shut. Then his mouth licked a path down her neck to her shoulder. Then he closed his eyes and breathed her in as his hand worked on her sex, his finger pulsing to a rhythm, a thrum.     

His other arm slid around her waist, pulling her flush to him as he reached deeper. He tried another finger as she grew slick, his own thumb now wet and slippery. With the fleshiest part of his hand, he pressed against her most sensitive place and rubbed hard, then harder. A tiny moan escaped from her lips like a song and his heart smiled. 

He watched her in the mirror, her head now pressed in the crook of his neck, lips parted, eyes closed almost as if in repose except the hike of her breath belied an urgency building within her. She was gasping now, snatches of words like _don’t stop_ and _please_ … Her hands now gripping her thighs, leaving prints of white, then red. When his free hand skittered up to cup a breast, to knead it, she groaned.  

_I love you like no other. I am yours._

“Look at me,” he whispered in her ear. “Please.” 

Then she looked in the mirror and she saw what he saw. His hand, clutching her breast. His fingers inside her, flicking fast, persistent. And the way that he stared into her own eyes — devotion and desire, raw and unflinching and dark. She came apart then, with a cry low and primal. She took him with her, the wave of her pleasure picking up his reborn heart along the way and then gently laying it atop a hill.   

His hand stayed finally, and she turned into his neck and craned to look into his face. He bent his head and kissed her with all the passion of longing for years. 

_You are here still. My love._

Slowly, they moved so his back was now on the carpet. She lay beside him, and he shifted on to his side so he could drink in her eyes. She traced a finger over his eyes, his nose, his beard, his mouth, as if committing him to memory.  

He wanted to tell her, even though she already knew. 

“Sansa, I lo—“ 

But she placed her finger on his lips. “Shh…” she entreated before covering his mouth with hers. As she kissed him, his heart clenched, then soared. _No words, then._

Slowly, he felt her rock his body back on the carpet. A brush of her hand on his rigid, aching member. She trailed her fingernails over the length of him. And then he felt her weight shift as she brought a leg up and over him.  

She paused, a little uncertain and his heart burst with fondness and delight. Her sweetness, her innocence, her purity even after a perverse and monstrous past… It astonished him. He was a man seldom surprised.  

_Are you sure you want to do this?_

Her eyes, now stormy brilliant blue, told him all he needed to know.  

He stroked his own member, and then positioned himself. When she sank on top of him inch by inch, he almost came. He waited for her to adjust to him before placing his hands on her buttocks to guide her. 

“You can rock,” he murmured, “to and fro. You can control the speed and intensity. Or you can move up and down. It’s up to you, my love.” He played the teacher once more, spreading the cheeks of her bottom, letting her feel his every inch as it grazed her every nerve-ending within. He guided her slowly until she found a rhythm she liked. And then he lay back down and enjoyed the wonderful view of her mounting pleasure. 

She learned to pick up speed and as she did, he found himself meeting her halfway, his hips thrusting into her as if of their own accord. He was close again now, and he groaned into the air. At the sound, she smiled for the first time that evening, a brilliant smile that lit up dim dark corners of his mind. His heart grew bigger, stronger, and it loved. He reached out with both hands to hers. Her fingers intertwined with his and then gripped him hard as she sought another release.   

Her cries, distant and airy, were what did it in the end. The wave overtook him as he felt the volley of cum, emotion and strength leave him. How long he had waited. How hard he had wished. He had never been a praying man but tonight, he believed. 

His hand reached out to caress her face, memorising her as she did him. 

* * *

_How do you answer these charges... Lord Baelish?_

He blinked. Slowly the room came back into focus. Slowly he looked around the great room, at the myriad of eyes staring back at him. Some mocking. Some gleeful. 

A pounding in his ears. 

“Lady Sansa, forgive me… I’m a bit confused.” 

She listed the litany of his sins then, but he hardly heard them at all. Because all he could hear was the pounding in his ears and the shriek of his heart as it shrank back in agony, as though pierced with a lit poker.   

* * *

She watched as the light ebbed from his eyes. As his passion for her snuffed out like a weak candle.

_Never again,_ she knew. Her gut twisted painfully. But still she went on with her speech. 

"You held a knife to his throat.  
You said, 'I did warn you not to trust me.'  
You told our mother this knife belonged to Tyrion Lannister.  
But that was another one of your lies.  
It was yours.”

“Lady Sansa,” his voice hoarse and cracking, “I have known you since you were a girl. I’ve protected you—“

“ _Protected_ me?” Her eyes narrowed. “By selling me to the Boltons?” _You’ve seen my scars. You know now. You had failed me. You betrayed me. The only man I ever trusted._

“If we could speak alone, I can explain everything!”   

His eyes searched hers, looking for warmth. Looking for give. But she had to stay strong. She had already said her goodbye. 

“ Sometimes,” she replied quietly, "when I'm trying to understand a person's motives, I play a little game. I assume the worst. ”

_Except she saw his heart laid bare. And she believed him._

The look on his face now. “Sansa… _please._ Give me a chance to defend myself. I deserve that!”

She had to close her eyes. When she opened them again, they were back to the colour of steel. 

She watched as Arya stepped forward, Petyr's own treacherous Valyrian steel knife glinting despite the overcast sky and the pall in the great room. He was working the room now, trying to find a true friend in a hall full of fair-weathered, backstabbing cowards. They both knew exactly how the odds were stacked against him. And yet here he was still trying — this proud, tremendously clever man reduced now to thinly veiled begging in the guise of hoarse commands. Her heart squeezed painfully. She wondered if it was pity. 

“Sansa,” he was calling to her now, "I _beg_ you! I loved your mother since the time I was a boy!” 

“And yet you betrayed her.” 

He pressed himself against the courtroom table, his eyes beseeching hers alone. She saw the anguish within and fought down the lump in her throat. _No, you cannot. You must be stronger than this._   

“I _loved_ you,” he whispered fiercely. And the room suddenly faded away until all that remained was a man in anguish staring up at her. She remembered the way he loved her. She remembered the way he filled and stretched her, the way he had plumbed the very depths of her soul in spite of herself. The way he gripped her hands and crooned her name as she came last night.  

He had loved her. More than anyone. 

“And yet… you betrayed me.” 

She watched as Arya walked towards him, her hand twitching near the leather sheath. The words of their father playing now in her mind. 

_The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword._

“Arya,” she called out then. “Stop.”

The look in his eyes was one of sudden relief. And hope.

She took the knife from her sister.

_If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words._

“Do you have anything else to say, Lord Baelish?”

She watched as the light in his eyes finally died.

“Sansa...” he whispered, broken.

_And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die._

She squeezed her eyes shut just as she slid the blade across her lover's throat.  


	2. Conflicted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by apocketfulofwry

The blood-red sun peeking from beyond the horizon split the sky, spilling a flamingo stain across a jagged landscape of rocks and sand.

_Wasteros_ , they called it these days. 

From her vantage point safely ensconced within the cabin of a military transport chopper, Sansa was privy to a bird's eye view of the devastated countryside.  

Daenerys' Dragons had decimated much of the surface area, leaving behind a terrain pockmarked by the large craters only fifty megatons of payload could form.  They leveled cities and transformed plains into valleys, their fragmented shells littering the ground amidst the rubble of the cities they destroyed.  The fallout from their depleted uranium cores darkened the skies with clouds of ash and salted the surrounding earth for miles, ensuring little life could flourish.  

From this, a devastated populace had begun to pick themselves up and knit the wreckage of their lives back to a semblance of what order there was before. Lords and landowners returning to take back their holdings, the Wardens in place to rule over their respective regions. Those that died during the war passing on the mantle of responsibility to heirs, and those without heirs... 

The blade slap of the helicopter's rotors drowned out the shouted conversation of the men around her, leaving Sansa alone in a cocoon of her thoughts. 

She could not shake this foreboding, this general unease that there was something more to this request. This fool's errand. She was no diplomat. So why, of all the more than capable negotiators in Queen Daenerys' court, was she really selected for something she had limited experience in? 

Unbidden, a memory. 

Grey-green eyes, a knowing smile.  

Clever lips spinning clever words as he popped seeds in his mouth; spinning lies as his mouth sowed seeds of an idea into her fertile young mind. 

_What we don't know is what usually gets us killed, Sweetling._

Petyr always knew what to say.  

Sansa Stark, older, wiser, with a heart that beat only to survive, fought the destructive urge to have the small, platinum-blonde woman before her escorted out of the room. 

"Surely there must be some other way?" 

"There is no other person in a position to do this." 

"You're asking me to return to the Eyrie," the Warden of the North stated flatly, her tone betraying little emotion, her expression carefully blank. "You ask too much of me, your Grace." 

"If there were any other way—" 

"Yes, I understand how this goes. You would have found it, and not wasted the travel when a simple phone call would have sufficed." 

"And run the risk of your rejection?"  retorted the Queen with some amusement. "I think not." 

"It would still have saved you the trip." 

"I know that this must be a difficult decision for you, given your history, and what that man put you through—" The Queen started with a wry smile, but Sansa cut her off abruptly, presenting her back to the smaller woman.  

"He's dead. We do not speak of the dead."  She gazed out the window, bracing herself upon the cold, stone ledge, and took in the view of the Citadel of Winterfell at night, bathed in wan moonlight. Its high walls demarcating the city borders from the tundra that stretched for miles beyond. 

Winterfell had seen nothing but snow for almost five years. 

"Westeros  needs your help, Sansa," the Queen tried once more. "You know crop production has not yet stabilized after the war. We are still rebuilding and relocating much of the infrastructure needed for agriculture. The Vale, on the other hand, having flourished these last few years, has been our primary supplier of food and grain — but I want more... assurance than mere good faith. Especially now with our erratic weather."

_That you caused,_ thought Sansa. _Erratic, my ass_. "The Vale is a microclimate," provided Sansa. "Its geographic location and surface topography protects it from such fluctuations. Even before the war they were able to grow a variety of crops and fruit-bearing trees not seen this far up North." 

A flicker of interest in the Queen's eye. "You seem to know much about the Vale." 

"I remember enough, having lived there for some months with my aunt and cousin." _And Petyr._

"This was after you left King's Landing with Lord Baelish. After the Lannister boy's death." 

It was a testament to her growth from the frightened little bird she had been during those dark days that the mention of Joffrey and Petyr in the same breath did not make her flinch, that her heart did not feel at all as if it was trying to escape the clutches of a cruel fist. 

"Yes. Lord Baelish, he helped me, then. He hid me in the Vale." And there it was. That sharp stab of pain, that brief moment where the breath that had just left her body struggled to return at the recollection of the man. As quickly as it came, the urge passed and finally she was able to breathe freely again. "He felt that being a fugitive should not be a hindrance in the furtherance of my education." 

"A peculiar man, Lord Baelish." 

"Yes, he was. He taught me much about the ways and evils of men." 

_Petyr_.  

Protector, professor. Lover whose twisted heart beat true — until she had cut the life from it in one fell stroke. 

Memories not dwelled upon trickling to the forefront of her consciousness again. Her time in the Vale had not been at all unproductive. She had spent her days exploring the collections of books in the many libraries in the Eyrie, reading up on Vale history, its geography, learning much about the people who lived and worked within. Sweet Robin's tutors had taken to her, finding her a more eager, attentive pupil than her fragile young cousin had been. Under the careful tutelage of the Vale's maesters — and Petyr Baelish — Sansa had flourished.  

Its not inconsiderable military force had remained untapped during the war, the former Lord Protector choosing to abstain from choosing a side, only lending its military might for a single battle against the Bolton forces that threatened to overtake Winterfell.  

Upon his death, the army had simply melted away, perhaps to return to their beloved Vale. Sansa felt a twinge of shame that she had not given a second thought to the men who had fought for her, at the behest of the man who had, once upon a time, claimed to love her.  

It would not be entirely out of the realm of possibility that somehow, the Vale — t hat patch of seemingly endless green, bordered on all sides by high mountain ranges, shielding the valley between from any drastic outside changes — would have been spared the consequences of the fallout. 

"However, I've not been there since, your Grace," continued Sansa. "Who is the Protector of the Vale now?" 

A hesitant pause, the Queen seeming to engage in a moment of inner debate before gathering her thoughts. "Your former husband, Lord Tyrion Lannister," she admitted finally. 

" _Tyrion_ is the Lord Protector?" Sansa whirled around in disbelief. Oh, this was beyond ridiculous. So that was where he had disappeared to.  

"Lord Tyrion is the Defender of the Vale," corrected the Queen, moving to stand before Sansa, lightly clasping the taller woman's arms. "That is why you must be the one to go to him." 

"You're hoping to use our _connection_ , our brief, _unconsummated_ marriage, in the hopes that Lord Tyrion might carry some remnants of _fondness_ for me to negotiate a trade deal?"  

_Daenerys had always a beautiful woman_ , thought Sansa idly. Surely there must be some other good in her, enough to turn Jon into whatever he had become — a Targaryen lapdog, hers to command as she willed. Anything for Sansa to view her other than Death, the destroyer of worlds.   

Her erstwhile half-brother-turned-cousin may sit on the throne, but all of Westeros knew who truly reigned. 

"For his services to the crown, Lord Tyrion was granted the holdings and titles that formerly belong to Lord Baelish. Harrenhal, as well," elaborated the Queen.  

The wind howling outside rattled the glass panes. Sansa looked down into the Queen's eyes and found neither lie, nor truth. Nothing but a vast uncertainty swirling within their depths. In the dim light, they appeared a shade of burgundy, so intoxicating that Sansa felt she could almost choose the lie. With a mental shake, she broke free of the gaze and the Queen's gentle grasp.  

"What could we possibly offer him, your Grace? You said it yourself. He has the most precious commodity — food. For such an important treatise as this, why not go yourself? Or send Jon?" 

The Queen gave her a sad smile. "Given the circumstances of our parting, I doubt Lord Tyrion would be inclined to look favorably on either Jon or I. Castles and titles are a poor replacement for a beloved brother. With stakes as high as these, we want to stack the odds as much in our favor." 

Just as it always did, in times when a decision had to be made, her mockingbird's voice crept into her head.  

**Everyone wants something, Alayne.**

But Petyr was dead.  

Silence and the howling of the night wind was all the advice she would ever receive. 

* * *

The helicopter banked abruptly, jarring Sansa from her reverie. She held onto the strap tethered to the metal support beam overhead with one hand, the other clutching her knee reflexively through the combat armor she wore. As the craft righted itself and began to steadily ascend once more, Sansa adjusted the angle of her Aviators and looked over to the horizon, squinting to see beyond that line where earth met sky, to where an area of gathering storm clouds loomed.

The warmth from the morning sun that bathed her face now did precious little to melt the tendrils of ice that had long ago crept its way into her heart.

* * *

At the base of The Bloody Gate, the snow whipped around them on a cruel wind, picking up speed as it raced through the high walls of the narrow pass and battering the small group struggling to climb the ice-slick steps cut into the massive rock formation. 

As they pushed forward, the passageway gradually narrowed to a point where it was only traversable by walking in single file formation, walls closing in around them. Here the wind further intensified, more than frigid, the glacial temperatures having long ago numbed what little-exposed skin there was on the travellers’ faces, painting their extremities with the first brush strokes of frostbite. 

They struggled on through the soft snow until the pass finally ended, abruptly opening up to a wide, flat plain, still bordered by the same high stone walls that made up the canyon behind them. Their tired eyes took in the monolithic formation, carved into the very rock itself. The previously howling wind had died a quiet death, the snow in this recess barely covering the tops of their boots. 

"Must be one of those crazy weather fluxes," one of the men voiced knowingly. 

His fellow nodded in agreement. "Those Dragons sure shit on Westeros good." 

Sansa, child of winter, daughter of Winterfell, huffed in mordant amusement. "It's nothing to do with the fallout, gentlemen. This is just how snow behaves." 

The two men had the grace to look chagrined. "Apologies, m'lady. It's just that this place gives us the willies."  

"None needed." 

As she stared up at the Bloody Gates, Sansa could admit to herself that right now, the canyon 'gave her the willies' as well. 

So different from the first time she had come to the Eyrie. Was it the weather? The years that had gone by? Was it because memory was always a kinder mistress than reality? Perhaps.  

Or was it the companion? The man in whose arms she found warmth and protection? A politician born and bred, with a heart as fickle and tongue as silken as they come. Not these rough soldiers, brave and loyal though they may be.  

"How'd they get to this place before the war, anyway?  Barely wide enough to fit a grown man, let alone a truckful of supplies," groused an older soldier rubbing his hands together in a futile attempt at warmth. His breath misted the air in short puffs. Most of these men were Daenerys'. Used to the heat of the South. Those from the North, acclimatized as they were to the ravages of winter, calmly milled about, awaiting further orders. 

"It wasn't like this before the war," Sansa spoke quietly, gesturing towards the other side of the canyon, to what appeared to be a pile of rocks obscured by snowfall. On further scrutiny, they saw that it extended all the way up to the peaks of the pass. "That used to be the main road. During the height of the fighting, they blocked access into the Vale, limiting travelers to the narrow footpath if they wanted to get in. Alternatively, we could have gone by sea. But given the present weather, that would have taken too long and left us at the mercy of the waves." 

"Yeah, you're right. I remember that bit from the mission brief," acknowledged another of the men, tall and red-haired with eyes the color of jade. "Lord of the Eyrie's got himself a pretty sweet deal, methinks.  All of Westeros sends their ships to pick up grain, and all he needs to do is load up the boats and pocket the gold." 

"That's one way of looking at it," agreed Sansa.  An aura of manic energy hung about him, so much that Sansa could almost feel the crackle of static in the air. Snow clung to the tips of the hairs of his beard.  "Another way is that he's got us between a rock and a hard place. It's the golden rule. Whoever has the gold — or in this case, the grain — makes the rules. We're merely here to broker a deal for an increase in the frequency of shipments, gentlemen. Our current schedule's just not going to cut it. We've lost enough time walking." 

"Yeah? Well someone forgot to give the flyboys a memo that choppers can't scale fuckin' mountains. Beggin' yer pardon, m'lady." He nodded curtly at her in perfunctory apology. If there was any real embarrassment for his coarse behavior in the presence of his superior, Sansa could find no trace of it. Strangely enough, that was a greater comfort, this brute honesty than the lies which she was forced to weave and dodge day after day, all in the name of Westeros. Politics had become a beast she had to tame every day. 

She acknowledged his apology with a nod of her own, her gaze and thoughts focused on the machine-gun barrels sticking out of the solid rock face the Bloody Gates had been carved out of.  

* * *

Past the Gates of the Moon, the weather — and the terrain — had leveled off, giving way to a temperate atmosphere. Despite the winter storms raging outside, summer reigned within the Vale of Arryn. Sansa, now beginning to sweat, stripped off the heavy military-spec winter parka with its dense thermal lining and climbed into one of the waiting SUVs the Castle of the Moon provided for the transport of travelers. The vehicles' solid, boxy forms and wide, all-terrain tires that gave off an impression of quiet, near-indestructible competence should have reassured the Warden of the North, but she was lost in her own thoughts, unwanted snatches of memories tapping gently at the gates of her mind, asking for an audience.

_It had been night by the time they reached the Vale of Arryn. They'd been on the run for nearly a week now, hiding out and sleeping in a series of stolen cars, switching them out as frequently as they could — the more decrepit the rustbucket, the better. Sansa could still feel the odor from their previous owners stuck to her skin, working its way down to her very pores. Her hair was coated in a thin film of oil and road grime that washing in sinks at gasoline stations and bus stops could not completely get rid of. She feels like she could trade her kingdom for a hot shower right now._

_Once they reached the Castle of the Moon, however, her wishes were granted, and her belly was filled with the first, proper hot meal in days. As they needed to keep moving, they bid their hosts a quick farewell, and she soon found herself buckled into a large, black SUV belonging to the castle and the Vale. Petyr declined Lord Royce's offer of a chauffeur, opting to drive the rest of the way himself._

_They spent most of the drive in silence, her still in a state of shock from the sight of Joffrey falling over, coughing up blood at his own wedding feast nonetheless, him deep in thought. The quiet was interrupted only by the intermittent ringing of his mobile phone, with snatches of brief conversation and terse orders coming from his end in response to whatever was being said at the other end of the line._

_From time to time he would look at her, moonlight glinting off the silver at his temples, and he would lay a brief, comforting hand on her knee to give it a reassuring squeeze before returning to the wheel. His eyes would on occasion drift from the road to glance at her when he thought she wasn't looking. Always quiet, always watching._

"Looks like we're riding in style, boys!" whooped the red-haired soldier as he opened the door to the shotgun seat in front of Sansa and slid inside. His comrades let out a resounding cheer and clambered into the vehicle closest to them, eager for the reprieve from walking. Sansa envied them their easy camaraderie. The evident certainty that their brother would always have their back. She could no longer remember a time when she could turn thought to action without considering the potential ramifications of each motion. 

It had been shockingly easy getting past the security checks. The men in the watchtowers must have been going crazy the moment they stumbled through the thin crevice few were familiar with save those who had walked it before. In retrospect, given the obvious military presence of her escort, it was a wonder they weren't shot on sight. Instead, while not entirely welcomed, they were permitted to state their purpose, after which a flurry of phone calls were made.  

"Warden of the North" and "Emissary of the Queen" had proved to be less than helpful as a means of passage, but “Sansa Stark, seeking an audience with Tyrion Lannister” was apparently the key needed to unlock the heavily fortified Vale doors. 

Sansa gazed at the countryside rushing by, fields of wheat and corn blending together in a smear of green and ochre as they whizzed past on well-maintained asphalt.  

The road stretched out before them. In the distance, she could see its slow ascent, winding and twisting a serpentine trail on the mountainside, until halfway up, it disappeared into the gathering mist. 

* * *

The Eyrie was, as always, cloaked in a thin layer of melancholy. It hung over the men and Sansa, casting a pall on all, muting even the vibrancy of the red-haired soldier. Everything to her appeared washed out and grey, the ubiquitous mid-afternoon fog already rolling in like clockwork to blanket the grounds, weaving in between shrubbery and sculpture alike. It had obscured the end of the drive, reduced visibility forcing her driver to switch his headlights to low beams. Sansa could only just make out the outline of the labyrinth and the odd spear or head of the statues within as they drove past. Briefly she contemplated taking a quick walk into the heart of the maze, see if she could still find her favorite bench, her preferred hiding spots when the world became too much. Rub her palm across the marble horse's hoof two left turns away from the center of the labyrinth that had been cut into high walls from the cultivated topiary.

She was out of the vehicle before it had even rolled to a full stop, her boots crunching on the fine gravel of the drive, eager to get this visit over with. Ever since the Queen's request she had to learn to readjust to a rapidly shifting range of emotions, from anger to apathy, to a depth of sadness bordering on a kind of despair she had not felt since those dark days after Petyr's death. 

A light drizzle had begun to fall, the carved pair of gargoyles at the entrance of the manor proper now stained a darker shade of stone as they trudged past, up the entryway stairs where a lone, grey-haired man stood, waiting. 

They were ushered into a cavernous entrance hall, their footsteps echoing down the corridors to either side of them. In front, the massive main staircase, laid out of solid marble, the steps on the wider first flight more worn than either of the two narrower flights that bifurcated at the landing, curving upwards in a quarter circle turn to lead to the second floor. When she was younger, more foolish and less cynical, Sansa had run down those stairs more times than she could recall, playing pirates, and knights; slaying dragons with young Robin. On his good days, the boy could almost be tolerable. On bad days — well. 

The house steward was a stocky man of average height with a squashed nose that gave him a decidedly pugilistic air. Apart from the initial greeting, he said little until he reached the foot of the staircase and alighted the first step, motioning for the group to stop.  

"This is as far as you go, gentlemen."  

When the inevitable furor caused by the simultaneous protests from the group had died down, he raised his hand and continued, "Madam Warden may be accompanied by one other, but he's to stay outside the door of the master's study." Another clamor from the group. "Didn't expect you lot to come by land, truth be told. Thought it'd be by sea and not for a few more days at least." 

Sansa had thought as much, given the beefed-up level of security the Eyrie had at present — far more than it had been from what she remembered. Either that, or she truly had been a young, naïve child whose world revolved only around her pleasures. 

"That seems fair enough," said Sansa. The steward gave her a small smile, a slight twitching at the corner of his lip, and nodded his head in thanks. She surveyed her small contingent, choice already made, and motioned for the red-haired soldier to come forward, his massive bulk and aura of competent command lending her much needed stability.  

"I suppose it will be the two of us then, Mr —" 

"Giantsbane. Captain. Wildling Command." Ah. Tormund Giantsbane. The name was not unfamiliar to her, as well as his history with Jon. She should have known that he would want to keep an eye out for her at all times, whether to his or her advantage, Sansa had yet to determine that. These days everyone else was a potential enemy; all their motives questionable.  

"Very well, Captain." She turned to the steward then, "I trust you find no objection in my choice of companion?" 

There was a slight tensing in the steward's square jaw, so subtle as to go almost unnoticed. Curious. "Of course, Madam. Now, if you and the Captain would come with me, I'll show you to the master's solar. Someone'll come along to give the rest of those boys some food and get some hot tea in their bellies." 

* * *

Tyrion had appropriated Petyr's old solar.

She should have anticipated that. Should have prepared herself more thoroughly when they were led through a familiar corridor, taking familiar turns forever imprinted within her memory. 

Not much had changed since the day she'd last been here. Either The Lord of the Eyrie did not spend much time in the solar or he'd deliberately chosen to receive her here for a reason and he did most of his work in a different location. In truth, neither scenario seemed likely; from what she remembered of her former husband's penchant for organized clutter, that this room bore little of his mark was in itself unusual. 

The solar was a two-story, split-level affair with high ceilings and a stained glass skylight above, casting prisms of colour below. Behind the heavy wooden desk decorated with intricate carvings of medieval huntsmen and their prey, a wide glass window overlooked the manor grounds. On a clear day, one could see into the heart of the labyrinth, just outside.  

She had spent many hours in the maze, lost in her thoughts and a good book. The privacy it afforded a welcome refuge to her fractured soul. It was one of those rare days that the rain and fog had not come and the Eyrie was awash in sunlight that she had decided to picnic by herself, filching a bottle of sweet peach wine from the kitchens to indulge in. As she reached the center of the labyrinth, she turned back to look at the main house and she saw, standing by one of the windows, Petyr. The outline of his form and silver temples distinctive even from a distance. She had felt an odd flutter in her belly, a sudden rush of awareness as she realized that he was observing her. May have even been watching her during her previous visits. The thought did not disturb her as much as it should have. 

Sansa touched her hand to the glass and wondered if there was anybody out in the maze right now, and if they too could see her standing by the window.   

She braced herself for the inevitable tide of grief to wash over her like waves against rock, the shock of hurt not in the least diminished by time. As fresh and as raw as the day she made the cut and stayed to watch it bleed. She grit her teeth against the onslaught, let the pain flow through her and out, until finally, she felt she could breathe again. 

_She kissed him. His eyes, his nose, touched her mouth to the angle of his jaw and the day's growth of stubble. Ran her lips on the soft skin of his neck, nipping at the places where she imagined Arya would draw the blade in the morn._

_She fought down the temptation to leave a collar of bruises from her mouth, a broken line to guide the knife deep into his flesh and bleed the life out of him._

Everywhere, ghosts of the man she once loved — never knew she loved until too late —remained. 

"Don't gaze too far out into the moors, my Lady. You never know, something may be looking back at you." Tyrion's wry voice drew her back into the present. It seemed she was forever woolgathering in front of windows these days. 

"Don't you even care?" asked Sansa, the beginnings of a quiet rage stirring up inside her.

Tyrion eyed her with an air of apparent disinterest. He calmly reached for a crystal decanter, pouring a measure of the amber liquid it contained into two glasses. One he pushed towards Sansa. The other he took for himself, downing its contents in one gulp. 

"Deserts, grasslands, wastelands, badlands, and endless fucking snow. That's what's out there."

"Language. My what has become of your mouth, dear, former wife of mine." 

"Politics is what has become of my mouth, my Lord. All this pointless talk and perpetual walking on eggshells has given me a whole new set of vocabulary." 

He chuckled at that. "That is true." 

She approached his desk cautiously, placing both palms flat on the blotter and leaning her weight against it, looking down at the smaller man. "Then you can see why the Queen wishes to come to a new agreement with the Vale." 

A twitch at the corner of his mouth, a quirk of an eyebrow upwards as he poured more port into his glass, swirling it around, scrying into its depths. 

"I wasn't aware that there was a problem with our trade deal, my Lady," he bit out. "The ships have been coming in, our supply has remained steady — has improved, in fact — and we deliver on time." 

"You don't deliver, my Lord. You prepare the goods for pickup. It is we who have to come to you, at our own peril."

He looked up, gave a small, elegant shrug of one shoulder. "Supply and demand. We have the supply, you have the demand. Those terms were presented and agreed upon by the Queen herself." 

"Yes, I'm quite aware of that. However she desires to renegotiate —" Tyrion waved her off. 

"I fail to see what she could possibly offer us that we do not already have.  Sending you was a neat little trick, but sadly, not even your pretty face could provide sufficient incentive for us to renegotiate what is already, for us, a very comfortable arrangement." 

That was true. Sansa had to think fast, think on what the realm had to offer as a trade to entice the Lord of the Vale to acquiesce to their demands. Wine. Liquor? Lightbulb moment. 

"Wine!" she proffered excitedly. "We offer you wine. We could send shipments of the finest Arbor Gold Highgarden has to offer along with our ships that have come to pick up the grain." 

"We regularly get wine from Dorne, my lady," he offered almost apologetically. "It may not be as sweet as the finest from the Reach, but we've learned to make do over the years." 

"Aurochs. Surely you must need to replenish your livestock. We are still in possession of some fine cattle." 

A flicker of amusement on his face. "My Lady, last I checked, your animals are starving. I doubt the ones you actually could spare would survive the trip, much less have enough meat left on their bones for a fine, marbled steak." His phone buzzed with a message that he quickly glanced at before turning it over on the table, screen down. "However, we have been going at this for over an hour and though I hate to be a cliché, there are places to go and I do have people to see." 

"My Lord —" she protested.

"My Lady, let us cut this short and make it less painful for either one of us." He paused, breathed in deeply and tapped at the back of his phone with his index finger.  "Leave me a list of your demands and I'll see to it that are all met."

Stunned into silence, Sansa could only look at him, mouth slightly agape. "My Lord? All?"

He gave her a pained grimace. "All," he affirmed. The mobile phone in his hand went off just then. He glanced at the number and Sansa watched as his grimace deepened. “I have to take this,” he muttered, swiping the screen. Sansa nodded as her former husband stood and gestured towards the door, before ambling towards the wooden steps leading to the second level of the solar. “See yourself out?” he mouthed and Sansa nodded mutely before he smiled absently and ascended the steps, speaking into the phone in low tones. 

Sansa could only stare in confused silence at his retreating back, watched his form disappear up the stairs. Everything! This was a coup for her and the Queen. For Westeros in general. She breathed a sigh of relief, her mind mentally drawing up the new contracts whilst simultaneously dreading the mountain of paperwork that would undoubtedly have to be drafted quickly prior to their departure. Tyrion had given her no indication that he wished to offer them an open invitation of stay. 

But something wasn't quite right. After initially forcing her to bargain, he had been almost eager to get her out of the study, offering up an open contract with little further protest. Her former husband was a shrewd negotiator. He never, ever gave freely. It was always a _quid pro quo_ with him, though all throughout their life together, he had been unfailingly kind to her. Perhaps that was the reason Daenerys had seen fit to send her. Still. She was unable to shake off the feeling that he had not been entirely truthful. 

She walked towards the door and opened it to where Captain Giantsbane stood waiting, a grim sentinel in the hall, red hair a beacon in the dim lighting. Raising a finger to her lips she motioned him to silence, and mouthed a single word: "Hide" 

Taking a step back into the room she slammed the door shut with enough force that the noise it created was certain to be heard by its intended recipient. 

From above, she heard a shuffle of footsteps, the rumble of a heavy chair being pushed back, and low muffled _words_. Increasing in volume and gradually becoming more audible. Sansa stepped softly towards the shelves on one side of the room, just enough to not be seen immediately, yet making no move to conceal herself.  

"Yes, yes, she's gone. No, she has no fucking idea. I got rid of her as quickly as I could, gave her all she asked for. Isn't that what you told me to do? Well, I'm certain she's fucked off back to Winterfell and she and Daenerys sodding Targaryen can — " Tyrion. A one-sided conversation. "Honestly, you can be such a bloody baby sometimes. I don't know what you're so worried about." Heavy footsteps down the staircase at the opposite corner of her hiding spot. Sansa retreated further into the alcove, and watched as he made his way to the door. 

Without a mobile phone in hand.  

He paused in front of the door, hand on handle, and called out, "Well, are you coming, or not?" 

Sansa froze. Then Tyrion continued. "The stables need to be inspected and you need to see how the hydroponic farms you've allotted a huge chunk of the last year's excess budget on are faring. Hint: rather well, you great ruddy clever bastard." He paused, waiting for a reply. When none appeared forthcoming from whoever his companion was, he opened the door and Sansa could only pray that Tormund had taken the hint and made himself scarce. "If you're going to be taking your sweet time, I'll meet you out back. Maybe we'll actually be able to get some work done while there's still daylight. You can drive this time." 

As the door softly shut behind Tyrion, Sansa stepped out of the alcove, debating whether or not to follow him or stay behind and see who he was taking orders from. She didn't have long to wait.  

A measured gait. A man's shoe with a longer stride striking the floorboards overhead. Slowly a pair of boot-clad feet descended the stairs, legs in well-cut black trousers following. A man dressed all in black with a tailored overcoat extending to mid-thigh. Crisp white linen shirt.  

Her gaze travelled upwards to meet the eyes of a man whose last, desperate look had haunted her these past five years. A long, grisly scar bisected his throat, peeking above his collar. The line of coarse tissue an angry shade of pink that extended across his neck. 

His grey gaze took her in. Eyes that held no hint of warmth, or recognition. Expression blank. 

The door flew open as Tyrion ran back inside. "We can't find —" he started, then paused upon seeing Sansa. He looked up the stairs where his companion stood, then back at Sansa. 

"Well, fuck."  


	3. Contempt

Petyr stared at her, the words stuck in this throat. Such an unfortunate turn of phrase, thought Petyr irritably, seeing how his throat had been fucked for years — by  _her_. 

His eyes turned to flint then, the familiar ugly heat creeping up his neck like spiders. He resisted the urge to reach up and brush his fingers across the scar tissue.  

“Well, fuck.” 

Petyr looked past her to stare at his short companion at the door. If looks could cut a man down, Tyrion would now be left with his big, sloppy, traitorous head and little more beside.  

“Petyr…?” Her voice, high and breathy. “You’re alive?” 

“An astute observation.” Sansa turned and stared at Tyrion, only to realise that he had merely been repeating what Petyr just said. What Petyr just _signed_ to Sansa. She met Petyr’s eyes, now narrowed and beady, the colour of onyx. 

She remembered when they were once a soft grey tinged with emerald. 

“B-but.. how!” 

“Evidently, you did a shitty job.” Sansa stared at Petyr, then back at Tyrion who merely shrugged as if to say, _not my choice of words. I am but the mouthpiece._ Her head snapped back to Petyr, and she struggled to believe, to understand. A war of emotions crashed into her chest so she could hardly breathe now, a great mighty clash as shock fought guilt and crossed swords with elation and longing. And anger, even. And then guilt again and hopelessness. And not a little fear.  

He was trembling, she realised. He was actually trembling with rage. She watched as he slipped his hands deep into his coat pockets. 

With effort, Petyr now willed himself to stay perfectly still. _Cold, unmoved, immune. Like a statue._ He took in the way her combat armour sculpted her body, how it made her look taller, stronger, leaner… A leader. Warrior. A queen. Her hair was just the same, though. Long, thick, luxurious. She had pulled it back tight and away from her face, but it still caught the light from the windows behind him and now it shone like precious, rare copper.  

Her face was still ruddy from the biting cold before, parts of it smudged from the grime of travel. Still beautiful. 

Hatefully, hatefully beautiful. 

Slowly, Tyrion made his way quietly forward to stand between Petyr and Sansa as if he, too, could sense the thinly-reined violence of both their emotions.  

Petyr directed his gaze to him thus. 

[What the FUCK, asshole!] Petyr signed. [You said she was GONE!] 

[She was!] 

[Did you _see_ her go?] 

A pause as Tyrion shifted on the spot. [Not exactly.] 

“But in my defence,” Tyrion was now saying aloud as Petyr started down the stairs and towards him, “I think she was hiding.” 

Tyrion turned to her then. “Sansa, weren’t you hiding?”  

“Yes I was.” 

“See?” He gestured to Petyr. 

“But only because I knew something was up.” 

He was down the stairs in a flash and even Tyrion quailed a little, his tiny feet stumbling back. Sansa’s eyes widened, her heart ratcheting up in alarm. She had never seen Petyr like this. _Never_. He had always been in control, his every move effortlessly elegant and closely calculated. There had almost been a grace in the way he used to conduct his affairs. Even when he had pushed Lysa out the window of this very room.  

But here instead was a man who looked to be on the cusp of exacting violence on his own right-hand man, with his own bare hands. 

Petyr stopped just shy of striking distance, his back deliberately turned towards the woman he once professed undying loyalty.  

[GET HER OUT OF HERE.] 

“Alright!” Tyrion held up his hands, and Petyr cast a withering last look at Sansa over his shoulder before turning coldly away to ascend the stairs.  

“Petyr… Petyr, PLEASE!” 

And the gods help him, but he froze on the step. Just because she called his name like that.  

“Petyr, I just — I didn’t know.” She closed her eyes. May the Old Gods help her, if she still believed in them. He _loathed_ her. Every pore, every hair... She could feel his anger rippling under his skin like a coiled viper, even as he tried in vain to school his face to a blank. She could feel his hatred come off his skin like a radioactive vapour. His fury, barely controlled. His scorn. It scorched her skin, his scorn. 

She wanted to sprint for the door and run down the Eyrie, down, down, down the steps, through the pass and into the mist — so long as she didn’t have to face the way he now looked at her.  

And in doing so, make her remember...   

_Gather. Gather yourself, you can do this. Rally. You’re the Warden of the North. Emissary of the Queen, First Cousin of the True Sovereign of the Seven Kingdoms._

_You’re a Stark. And this is Winter._

She opened her eyes and noticed Captain Giantsbane for the first time since the shock of seeing Petyr come back from the dead. Giantsbane was eyeing her now, face etched in concern, his bear-like body poised and on the ready to strike. He was counting on her. They all were. 

[GET OUT.] 

The sharpness of his gesticulation, the way his eyes flashed at her... She didn’t know sign language but it didn’t take an idiot to guess what he was saying. He was trembling again, an undercurrent, a frisson bordering on the frantic. 

The gesture got bigger, almost wild. [GET. OUT.] 

She almost recoiled at his vehemence. So instead she lifted her chin and stared right back at him. 

“I cannot leave until you answer me this. That blank cheque that Lord Lannister just gave me — that I list all my demands and that you’ll see they get met? Was it ever your intention to honour that offer? 

[Yes.]  

“No…” replied Tyrion tiredly, a hand reaching up to scratch the back of his head. He was avoiding her gaze now. Sansa watched as both men eyed each other wordlessly. A tense conversation was running between the both of them nonetheless. 

“No?” Sansa pressed, staring now at Petyr, who was staring unhappily at his friend. His lips were pressed so tight they almost disappeared under this trademark moustache. He had still kept the same look, even after all these years. His hair had greyed even more, the silvery wings on the side of his temples a little more pronounced. He was still a very handsome man. Who would never forgive her. That, she was sure. 

She was also sure he had signed ‘yes’.  

“I’m not leaving the Vale until I’ve had the chance to list the Queen’s demands in full and have the contracts drawn up. And signed by all parties concerned.” 

Tyrion sighed. “Do we need to be so formal?” 

“Lord Lannister,” Sansa replied haughtily. “We were married once. But I am no longer your ward and possession.” 

“You never were, m’lad—” 

“And I am no longer a fool.” Her voice was low but she was sure to let the steel of her words sit heavy on his conscience.  

She turned to face Petyr, her eyes holding his, unwavering, even as the ice of his gaze still chilled her blood. “Petyr. Do we have a deal?” 

The heavy doors behind her slammed open and all three of them turned to stare, startled. A man dressed entirely in blacks and greys stumbled into the room as if he had just ground to a halt after running hard for a time. Sansa recognised him after a beat, she realised. _Lothor Brune, Petyr’s muscle and body man. Still alive and loyal._ She watched as he made his way quickly to both Petyr and Tyrion. 

“Avalanche,” Lothor reported grimly without preamble. “Two klicks in from The Bloody Gate. It’s cut off the pass completely. Weeks. And we’ve got weather coming in North towards the harbour as well, thick and fast. It’s bad.” 

A muscle in Petyr’s jaw clenched, then released. 

“My men?” croaked Sansa, suddenly ashen. 

“Are safe, m’lady. We’d seen the weather coming in and it will not reach us. Your men are on the steps. The avalanche is a hundred kilometres out from where we stand. But you’re here now, you and your men.” 

Sansa’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. “For how long!” 

“Hard t’say.” Lothor looked askance at Petyr now, and as if suddenly understanding the very breath from his Lord's mouth, Lothor bit his lip then bowed stiffly before disappearing as quickly as he came. 

“Well,” Tyrion began after a deathly silence. “That’s convenient for _you_ , at least.” 

Sansa stared back at her former husband. “I suppose,” she replied quietly. “But do we have a deal?” 

She turned back to Petyr, staring up the stairs to where he stood, unmoving.  

“Petyr… _do we have a deal?_ ” 

He looked down to face her squarely. 

[It’s Lord Baelish.] He spelt his name slow, each jerk of his long, articulate fingers like a flick off to the woman he once loved with all he ever had.  

[Haven’t you heard? Petyr is dead.] 

* * *

She was in her old room again.

Sansa traced her finger on the wallpaper, following the path of vines that curled and crept up to the double-storey ceiling. White and pink blossoms and almost luminous greens once upon a time, except now the colours felt leeched from the walls, the vibrancy she saw in her mind’s eye whenever her dreams used to summon the Vale now almost garish compared to the cold, faded reality of the room. 

The rest of the Eyrie had renovated, save Petyr’s solar and this room. Her room.  

It was just as she remembered it — the almost princess-like chair in the corner next to the antique-white dresser. The tall, dark wardrobe hand-carved by the Vale’s best at the time. Her four-poster bed, almost comically large to her back then. And yet she had never felt lonely in it.  

Sansa looked at the bed now and pictured herself sliding within its cold sheets tonight, under the very same roof with the man who was once her only true friend and saviour in the world. She repressed a shudder. 

He’s alive. He’s _alive_. Slowly she sank into the floor beside the bed. She closed her eyes and saw the steel dagger in her hand, always bigger, always shinier than before. _Murderer_. _Murdering Murderer._ She shook her head but still her hand would clench the dagger tight and shake and shake and shake.  

_I can’t! You will. You did._

As always, she’d turn aside and flinch just before her arm swung across, before the blade sliced into his neck and her heart bled and never healed. 

* * *

He heard the door click shut before he saw him. Petyr sighed, turning away from the tall glass window, the ghosts of the past still dancing amongst the hedgerows of the labyrinth that lay beyond. Skirts white, hair auburn and free... 

“We need to talk,” stated Tyrion, his dulcet baritone belying the strain underneath. 

[I agree.] Petyr walked around to the front of his desk and leaned against the edge, folding his arms across his chest. Head tilted expectantly. 

“Sansa’s men are settled in our barracks, the ones we usually keep for the Reserves down southwest of the Vale. Tormund’s with them, although he bloody wasn’t happy about it because now it means that Sansa is alone here. I suspect we’ll have our hands full with him, the longer they all stay here.” 

Petyr raised his eyebrows. [Then we’re most certain to have our hands full with him.] 

Tyrion frowned. “How bad is it? Anything more from Brune?” 

[A month, at least. The pass is blocked solid and choppers are blind in this weather. We’ve lost parts of the cliff-face and we’re looking at blasting our way through like we did the last time. But not if it triggers a secondary avalanche. I don’t want to lose any more men. 

As for ships, we’re dry docking all our best ones as we speak. It’s going to be a shitstorm. We’re in hibernation.] 

“So months, then.” 

[Maybe, maybe not.] 

“You’re awfully cavalier about our latest guests and this new living arrangement.” 

A muscle twitched in the corner of Petyr’s eye. 

[You wanna bet?] 

“Look, I’m not wild about Sansa being here either. But giving her everything she wants?" 

[And what does she want?] 

“I don’t know — probably a fuck-tonne more than what they’re getting now. She seemed pretty unhappy about the fact that they have to arrange delivery at their cost and risk. And you can bet every one of their last dying aurochs that they’re going to double their demand but try and wrangle a long line of credit and a ‘bulk discount’.” 

[Nothing we haven’t anticipated. She won’t be unreasonable.] And then a frown as realisation dawned. [Wait… you don’t know what she wants?] 

“We didn’t get too far, alright? I told her to put a list of her demands together and then we’d talk.” 

Petyr glared at Tyrion. [And I wonder why she didn’t believe you.] 

“I told her what she wanted to hear. But yes, if you must know… I told her she could have whatever she wanted, but I had absolutely no intention of following through.” 

[Even against my expressed orders?] 

“You pulling rank on me now, Baelish? Really?” 

The two men stared unhappily at each other. 

[You should’ve tried at least. I _fucking_ hate her, but she’s fair.] 

“Are you willing to bet the Vale on that? You and I know they’re dying out there. Sitting ducks and shit-scared and not producing anything anywhere near fast enough. Desperate times make desperate fools, Baelish.” 

Petyr’s jaw clenched, his fingers on his arm now pressed white until he forced himself to relax.  

[She is many things. She is young. But Sansa is no fool.] 

“I _know_ that. So why are we giving her carte blanche!” 

[Why didn’t you bother to broach a credible deal in the first place!] 

“ _Because_ , Baelish! THEY BUTCHERED MY BROTHER! Or have you forgotten, so swallowed up by your own pity-party over my ex-wife?” 

Petyr pushed himself off the table right then, crossing the floor in two long strides before he knew what he was doing, a backhand raised towards the dwarf who suddenly cowered out of reflex before drawing himself up to stand a little taller, defiant. 

He felt the anger ebb from his body as quickly as it had rolled in. _It’s not worth it, fighting over her. Over them._ He dropped his arm and turned to wander back to the tall glass window.  

“We need to stick together, Baelish,” Tyrion’s voice was quiet, an echo of his own sentiments. 

* * *

Tyrion had called her room from the intercom, informing her when the gong for dinner would sound and that she was welcomed and almost expected to join in. She had not anticipated that at all, if she were to be honest. She remembered exactly when the gong used to sound. 

Petyr, it appeared, had remembered too. Or else he’d never changed certain ways of the Eyrie. 

_How on earth did they wind up here?_ They had all trudged through shit and hell expecting to barter long and hard with Tyrion — already a ghost from her past, a distant character from a part of her life that she'd buried in the course of the war that ended all wars.  

But then Petyr had entered the room, as good as come back from the dead. The man who had been the true spectre of her heart, her thoughts and her soul these five long years past. An ever-fixed mark that never did bend with the remover to remove.*  

How the gods must laugh at them all.  

She was wholly unprepared. Gazumped. Flummoxed. The shock was wearing off finally but in its place now sank the seeping cold weight of a terrible kind of horror. He had loved her — truly, madly, deeply. She had stripped him bare, bared his heart and taken all he had to give before returning the next day to claim his life in front of mocking spectators. She’d cut him like a farmer silencing a stupid, frail chicken. The only man she’d ever loved. 

_It was justice_ , her mind always clamoured to remind and assuage. But she hated herself anyway.  

And then the biggest mystery of all — _how was he even alive now!_ That was no wight. He wasn’t now a member of the walking dead. All Old Nan stories and the stuff and nonsense of rabid Red Priestesses. His scar was real. She had longed to reach forward, to touch the ragged rope of flesh across his neck so as to _believe_.  

_She had cut him and he had grasped his throat, blood seeping, seeping. The light had left his eyes and she had watched him fall to his knees..._   

She had walked away. 

A sob came unbidden and she closed her throat instinctively, strangling her cry after the first anguished note. She shut her eyes tight as her grief washed over her, almost as fresh as the day it happened. Tears seeped and ran like rivulets down her cheeks. She gulped for air and then swallowed again so nothing, no one could know how that cut to his throat was a stab to her own heart.  

Except he didn’t die. 

And now he held the balance of the kingdom’s life in his cold, eloquent hands.  

The clock in her room chimed and she looked up, startled. She had half an hour. Quickly, she rubbed away her tears with the ball of her hand and struggled to her feet. She had brought nothing suitable to wear for dinner, nothing formal enough. 

But she was in her room now, wasn’t she.  

She crossed the thick-pile carpet and opened her wardrobe, noting how the doors still stuck the same way it did when she lived here seven years — a whole lifetime — ago. Bags of clothes hung neatly across the bar. She picked up the first two and recognised them immediately. She leaned in and took a tentative breath, fully expecting the musk of mothballs to hit her nose. There was none. It smelled clean. Neutral.  

There was no lady’s maid to draw her a bath this time, but she was a grown woman now who had seen the ravages of war and had powder-bathed for much of the week. She could take care of herself. She peeled off her armour and stepped into the shower recess, thankful for the piped hot water when it came in a glorious spurt to wash the grime of her day away. 

* * *

In the end, she was early. Her hair was still damp, but she swept it up into a high ponytail. Tyrion was standing in the drawing room, having already made a beeline for the decanter. He stood up when she walked into the room.

“Lady Sansa.” And he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it chastely. “I’m glad your old bedroom seems to be suiting you. I thought it’d be easiest, as you know how things work.” 

“It’s strange,” she admitted slowly. “It’s almost like I’ve travelled back in time, but I’m also a whole lifetime older. It’s disconcerting, honestly.” 

Tyrion nodded sagely. “I know the feeling. The first time I walked back in here, all I could think about was your aunt trying to kill me.” 

She actually smiled then. “That’s right. I’d forgotten about that. Isn’t that terrible?” 

“Like you said, a lifetime ago.” And he offered her a glass, but she politely declined. She could hold her drink better now, but she needed to be alert. 

“Speaking of which,” she continued slowly, “how is it that you and Lord Baelish came to work together now like you do?” 

“Well,” Tyrion paused and took the time to drain his whiskey glass. “You know Baelish. He recognises an opportunity when he sees one. And in the end, we both agree more than we disagree.” 

Sansa opened her mouth and closed it again. There were so many questions, but she no longer knew where she stood with Tyrion. As they just said, many things, many _understandings_ … they were a lifetime ago. He was civil enough, but she suspected his loyalties lay with Petyr. 

Who would have thought it.  

The gong sounded in the distance. Tyrion proffered his arm. “M’lady,” his baritone invited. She took it and walked into the dining room with him as footmen smartly swung open the large double doors. 

He was already seated at the table, a dark blazer over a cream white shirt unbuttoned, an ascot tied loose at his throat. He looked up as soon as they entered the room and she watched as his lips thinned immediately. 

He inhaled sharply. He knew that dress. It had been seven years but gods, she could still wear it — and wear it well. He took in the high, demure collar encircling her beautiful long throat. The white lace sleeves wrapped around the length of her arms like bridal gloves and through it, he could just make out her toned, lean muscles. The dress had always been form fitting, but now it hugged her breasts which seemed fuller. Lower. Her figure had rounded, marking the passage of time between girl and womanhood. He took in the way the dress narrowed to her little waist before sweeping down her back to wrap around the curve of her buttocks and then drop to the floor in a slight flare. It used to brush the top of her ankles but her new, fuller figure now meant the dress stopped just below the middle of her long, bronze calves. 

His mouth dried, desire beating dark and persistent against his chest as he free-fell back in time. Seven years, to be precise.  

He narrowed his eyes.  

“Lord Baelish,” she murmured. He stood up abruptly and he saw how she assumed he was only being polite. But her small smile died instantly on her face when he threw his napkin on the table with disdain before sweeping from the room through the side door.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * SONNET 116: LET ME NOT TO THE MARRIAGE OF TRUE MINDS  
> by William Shakespeare
> 
> Let me not to the marriage of true minds   
> Admit impediments. **Love is not love  
>  Which alters when it alteration finds,   
> Or bends with the remover to remove.   
> O no! it is an ever-fixed mark**   
> That looks on tempests and is never shaken;   
> It is the star to every wand'ring bark,   
> Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.   
> Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks   
> Within his bending sickle's compass come;   
> Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,   
> But bears it out even to the edge of doom.   
> If this be error and upon me prov'd,   
> I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.


End file.
